Yesterday would have been the ninth anniversary of the day that Bucky the Wonderdog came into my life. He died mid-January, and I have been dreading June 27 for weeks. As I anticipated, I spent much of the day in tears, which Fletcher the puppy was hard-put to understand.
There have been a great many losses this year. As you know, I do not divulge personal details about myself. Unless it is about my sex life or my great beauty.
Grief has taken its toll on me, and on this blog. I have failed my readers by failing to provide content, letting slip my part in the zeitgeist. In part it is because I cannot care about the usual matters that obsess moi. Rien enlève le chagrin. Interests and people will snatch one away for a short period, but then that’s over and it’s mourning in America. (Or at least New York.)
On Twitter I can be as carefree as I want, in 140 characters. An entire entry does not have to be composed. I don’t seem to be able to do that right now. There are many topics I wish to write about. The New York Senate bill legalizing gay marriage filled me with joy, as did attending the Gay Pride Parade. I wanted to snatch off half of the drag queens’ outfits. There is no such thing as too much sparkle.
Leo has been no help. He has this damn cat he lost in childhood and if I so much as mention Bucky he bursts into tears and isn’t good for anything the rest of the day.
I could say the same for myself. Here in front of my monitor, I sit, crushed, uninspired, sad.
But, as Scarlett O’Hara said, “tomorrow is another day.” Or rather, Margaret Mitchell did, but let’s not confuse the young ones.
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog